The King Marsile abides in Sarraguce

Where underneath an orchard's leafy shade,

Upon a terrace with blue marble paved

He rests. Around him twenty thousand men

And more are ranked. His Dukes and Counts he calls:

"Oyez, Seigneurs, what gath'ring ills are ours:

Great Carle, the Emperor who rules Sweet France

Comes to this land to 'whelm us with his might.

To give him battle I no army have,

Nor people to array against his host:

Your counsel give me, Lords, as my wise men,

And so defend your King from death and shame;"

But answer none a single Pagan gave,

Save Blancandrin del Castel Val-Fondé.

Aoi.